Page 63 of Built Orc Tough
Forever.
CHAPTER 30
GORRAN
The garden hums with life now, the kind of full-bodied buzz that gets into your bones and makes even the worst moods loosen their grip. Bees tumble between lavender stalks like drunkards with somewhere important to be, and Sprout’s running barefoot between the planter boxes, carrying a basket overflowing with marigold heads and muttering to herself about “pollen distribution” like she’s the damn Flower Authority of Elderbridge.
I sip my tea—strong, bitter, steeped to near-lethal strength—and lean back against the doorframe of our shop, which, thanks to Ivy’s insistence and the town’s affection, now goes by “Ivy’s Thorne.” NotThorne & Bloom.NotPetal & Thorn.Just Ivy’s Thorne.
And I’m fine with that.
Because the truth is, she’s the one who rooted this place back into the bones of the town. I just kept it watered.
The air smells like mint and loam and something spiced Ivy brewed that’s either a summer tonic or a creative mistake. I hear laughter inside—hers, full and sharp, followed by Terra’s drier chuckle and the thunk of something probably expensive being dropped onto the counter. Again.
Customers come and go all day, locals mostly. Sometimes the odd traveler drawn in by the ridiculous painted sign Sprout insisted we hang over the arbor. It reads:Magic Grows Herein sprawling calligraphy Ivy designed in a single wine-fueled evening. I said it was ridiculous. Ivy said it was perfect. The town agreed with her.
I didn’t argue.
Not anymore.
The wild patch I used to keep half-cleared behind the greenhouse has turned into our shared growing space now—rows of herbs and florals that shouldn’t coexist but do, blending like arguments that turn into compromise. Ivy’s planted every kind of chaotic bloom she can get her hands on—dahlias next to thistle, snapdragons tangled with creeping rosemary. And tucked in between, I’ve added what I know: orcish roots, hardier stocks, herbs that thrive under pressure and don’t mind the dark.
It’s chaos, yes.
But it thrives.
I step out into the garden and crouch by the row of bellflowers, fingers brushing over the blossoms as if they might tell me something new today. Ivy’s voice carries from inside—sharp, teasing, tugging a laugh from someone. Probably that old baker who visits every Tuesday under the pretense of buying lemon balm but lingers for an hour trying to get Ivy to share her syrup recipe.
And standing here, with the sun on my back, dirt under my nails, and the sound of her voice tangled with laughter behind me, I finally understand what it means to be full.
Because I remember what empty felt like.
I remember days when I didn’t speak unless it was necessary, when silence was a shield and solitude felt safer than any promise. I remember blood—mine, others’—and the things Iburied so deep even Terra couldn’t name them. I remember staring at my own hands and wondering what kind of man they made me.
But this?
This is different.
I look around—at the tangled rows, the bench we rebuilt after the winter storm, the sign that now stands firm against the gatepost like a sentinel of something sacred—and I know this isn’t just a shop.
It’s a home.
I didn’t think I’d ever have one again.
“You brooding out here?” Ivy’s voice breaks the quiet like a breeze that knows exactly how to get under your skin.
I turn just as she steps out onto the porch, flour dusted across her apron, a smear of something pink—probably hibiscus—on her cheek. She looks at me like she already knows I’m knee-deep in sentiment and doesn’t plan to let me live it down.
“Not brooding,” I grunt, standing slowly. “Observing.”
“That’s what brooding people say.”
“You’re the one who named this place like a romantic tragedy.”
“Ilikedthe pun,” she says, coming down the steps and looping her arm through mine like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “And you didn’t complain once we added your herbs and everyone started calling your bitterroot the best thing since sliced bark.”
“Sliced bark isn’t a compliment.”
